exploring the full implications of normality
by abigail-in-space
Summary: in which aziraphale and crowley move, settle, and try to decide what to do with their lives. they are on their own side, after all. based on a certain pixar movie with a very memorable opening sequence.
1. Chapter 1

"Angel, just think about it."

"I am thinking about it and I don't like it. Not one bit."

"We'd keep all the books. You don't have to worry about that."

"Well, it's not just about the books, Crowley! What about the old building? What about all of our memories there? Could you really give the old place up so easily?"

"You're being ridiculously sentimental."

"And you're being positively callous."

Crowley groans and slams his head on the table.

The scene we open on is one that has been played out many times before. Aziraphale and Crowley are having dinner at a new, local sandwich shop that serves a wonderful reuben, but Crowley is not focused on the food and for once neither is Aziraphale. Crowley is face-to-table, with his arms stretched out in front of him towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale is staring at the top of his head, unimpressed by the demon's dramatics. They are having a conversation that is about a month old and has aged like a half-eaten apple on a bright and sunny windowsill. This scene would be referred to by some as a "lover's quarrel," and it was perhaps the worst they had had in over a hundred years.

"I don't see what's brought this up all of a sudden," Aziraphale sighs. "You were perfectly happy here in London just a month ago."

"Heaven hadn't kidnapped and nearly had you destroyed a month ago," Crowley points out, his voice muffled against the table.

It's worth mentioning that Crowley doesn't think that there's an imminent danger. In fact, he's convinced it will be another several centuries before either side bothers them again. After all, they still have to think up a new Great Plan to have a Great War and a Great Revenge on the Two That Buggered Up the First Great Plan. No, there's no looming threat.

But Crowley hates knowing that everyone else knows where Aziraphale is. Because one day, he's sure, there _will _be a war. And he'll be caught off guard, just like this last time with the Apocalypse and all. And when he's caught off guard, he'd like to be more or less unaffected. The truth is, he'd like to move away from England altogether. Maybe India. Or America... That's big enough to get lost in. What it boils down to is that he'd like to be somewhere where Gabriel and Beelzebub would never find them again.

He would never tell that to Aziraphale, of course. So, he'll try to make himself content with England.

"Where would we go?" the angel in question questions.

Crowley picks his head up. This is the first time this question has come up. He's making progress. "I've had a google around and found some good listings in smaller towns. Like Tadfield but a little bit further away."

Aziraphale pokes around at his side salad with his fork. "Tadfield isn't terrible, I suppose. . ."

"That's the spirit," Crowley encourages with a hesitant smile. "Just think: we'll move to a new little village, you'll open up your new bookshop, and before long the whole town will know us. And they'll be doing little, charming, small town things like inviting us over for Sunday dinner, or asking for help when their cars break down, or who knows? Maybe they'll even just pop in for a chat to tell us all about how their kids are doing in school or that Cheryl from next door dyed her hair blonde and it looks horrendous. We'll be small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things, just watching the world we rescued go by, day by day."

Aziraphale is silent for a little while. Then he stabs his salad with the fork, almost vindictively. "I just want to finish eating and go home," he says.

Crowley nods and follows suit. The conversation isn't over yet.

It's three days later when Aziraphale walks into the kitchen where Crowley is. The angel's eyes dart all over, scanning the walls, his hands fidgeting. He's barely spoken to Crowley all that time, but now he says, "I'll let you show me the houses you were looking at."

Crowley smiles. "Angel-"

Aziraphale holds up a hand and interrupts. "I'll look at them. That's _all._ Because it will make you happy."

Crowley leaps out of his seat and plants a kiss on his angel's forehead. "It does make me happy," he admits. "But I want you to be happy. If we look at them and you still don't like it, we won't talk about it again. How does that sound?"

Aziraphale nods, spins on his heel and retreats into the deeper corners of the bookshop where Crowley knows he doesn't like to be disturbed.

It's sickening, his heart hurting for - sympathizing with - Aziraphale. All the more, as he's sure he's right. But at least Aziraphale said he'd look. That's a start. So, as soon as he's over his heart hurting, he calls to schedule an appointment with the realtor.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing one ought to know about poor Rita Barnes is that she has been tired for quite some time, so she can hardly be blamed for hearing the things she thinks she hears and seeing the things she thinks she sees. You see, she had been up quite late all last week due to her lapses of insomnia and even more frequent lapses of late-night studying. She balanced far too many things at once: being a realtor, going back to school, stamp-collecting, etc. Anyone with as much on their plate as Rita Barnes would collapse under the pressure. She hadn't yet, but her appointment with Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell to show them houses was beginning to make her think she was about to.

Neighborhood to neighborhood she takes them, and nothing seems to quite suit Mr. Fell. Of course, she had dealt with this kind of thing before: a reluctant spouse, unwilling to uproot. That's what her job is for, after all. But it's the number and manner of questions that Mr. Crowley asks that has her on edge.

"How fireproof would you say this house is on a scale of one to ten? One being prone to spontaneously combust."

"Don't suppose there are many churches nearby, are there? Yes? Bugger."

"This is pretty remote isn't it? I mean, no one would really be able to find you here, right? Basically, d'you think you could hide from God in a place like this?"

And the like.

Rita answers as best she can, sputtering often and nervously laughing just as much.

It's at a small cottage that Mr. Crowley says, "Not much room for the little ones, is there?"

Rita smiles pleasantly. "Are you planning on adopting?"

Mr. Crowley shakes his head. "No, not anymore. Haven't had to replace any for a while. Guess they all grew proper fear of the compost."

Rita's eyes widen and she bites back a shriek. Of course, she doesn't say anything. She doesn't have any children of her own, so what is she supposed to know about taking care of them? "Oh," is all she says, keeping her pleasant smile but straining very hard to do so.

Mr. Fell emerges from the kitchen he was examining. "It is a little small, Crowley," he says. Rita is still unsure why he calls his husband by the last name, and why Mr. Crowley seems to use his husband's full name when addressing him. "Not nearly enough space for all the books."

"I agree," Mr. Crowley says, lacing his fingers between Mr. Fell's. "Got anything bigger? Money's not an object."

She takes them to a mansion that's fifteen minutes from civilization.

Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell give themselves a tour of it. Though Mr. Fell is silent to the point of discomfort, Mr. Crowley is jumping around in the center of one of the sitting rooms, hands thrown up at the tall ceilings and laughing. "Oh, this is brilliant, this is," he says. "It's huge. Ginormous. Plenty of room to do whatever we want. Plants, books, gourmet kitchen..."

"It's Heavenly," Mr. Fell whispers under his breath. This Rita takes as an encouraging comment until Mr. Crowley's hands drop to his sides and his face distorts into a frown.

In three strides, Mr. Crowley is by his husband's side, and he's whispering something to him very quietly and very gently. An intimate moment she should not be privy to, she realizes and sidesteps slightly, adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat.

After their brief aside is over, Mr. Crowley thrusts his hands into his pockets and rocks on his feet. Mr. Fell stays rather stationary, but folds his hands neatly in front of him.

"Don't suppose you've got anyplace a little smaller?" Mr. Crowley questions.

"But bigger than the last place," Mr. Fell adds.

"With a good lawn."

"And a friendly neighborhood."

"Preferably without many churches."

"Maybe with an interesting history."

"And fireproof. Non-negotiable."

Rita's head is spinning. There's only one place she can think of that has everything they've asked for (minus the fireproof bit, unfortunately) and it's an impossible sell. Better realtors than her have tried and failed to sell it, and it's all due to the very thing Mr. Fell asked for: and interesting history. Nevertheless, she swallows hard, never losing her trademark pleasant smile, and says, "Of course! I know just the place."

It's an old, abandoned, worn down house in a small town near the coast. The townspeople won't touch it, and they'll soon scare off any outsider who thinks to try. Rita hasn't a hope in the world for it to be sold, but she walks into it feigning as much optimism as she can manage. "As you can see, it's a very decent size. Big enough for children, certainly, but cozy."

Mr. Fell shoots Mr. Crowley a confused look, which Mr. Crowley returns.

Rita pretends not to notice and continues. "The lawn is spacious and has a variety of wild flora that only needs a little t.l.c. to be a proper garden." A gentle way of saying that it's overrun with weeds. But Mr. Crowley saunters to the window and eyes it with interest.

Mr. Fell is running his hand over the built-in shelves when Rita says, "The neighborhood is very friendly. Very accepting of all kinds," she adds this very pointedly.

Mr. Crowley walks back over to her and leans in conspiratorially. "Even demons?" he questions in a low voice. "Have there been any demons around here?"

At this, Rita feels her stomach drop. How could he have guessed that the house was haunted? Nothing strange had happened since they'd been in. "Well, er-"

Before she can think up a response, Mr. Fell's eyes widen. "Oh, yes, there has been one," he says, his hand flat against the wall. His face distorts in distaste. "A nasty fellow, too. Left a bad impression, I think."

"Oh, that's a shame," Mr. Crowley says, as if he was just told that the grocer's was out of his favorite tea rather than that the house he was in had been haunted by a malevolent spirit.

Desperate to save face, Rita continues. "Well, the house has other charming qualities," she promises. None immediately come to her mind, but it has them, she's sure.

Mr. Crowley gives his husband an unfathomable look - it's difficult to tell what he's thinking with the sunglasses he wore in every home. However, Mr. Fell seems to understand, and returns a different kind of look, paired with a shrug. Mr. Crowley lets out a sort of "Ehhhhh," sound that sounds like a balloon being slowly deflated, to which Mr. Fell replies, "Oh, I don't know!"

Mr. Crowley holds up a finger and turns to Rita who's surprised to even be included in any proceedings at this point. "S'cuse me for asking, but isn't there a rather large library nearby?"

Rita adjusts her glasses. "Ah, there was. Unfortunately, it's been more or less abandoned since the man who ran it all passed away a few years ago. Still has most of its inventory, I think."

At this, Mr. Fell perks up just barely noticeably, but Mr. Crowley seems to notice. "Well," he dragged out. "If you're able to show it, we should have a look."

Without a word, Rita nods and takes them over.

It's a dusty, old place - almost as worn down as the house. The windows are broken, like someone had tried to loot it but decided that there was nothing of value to take. The shelves are still stacked with weathered books, and the computers are old enough to be Rita's grandmother.

"Oh!" Mr. Fell gasps the minute he walks inside. "Look at the state of these books! Horrid! Simply horrid!"

Mr. Crowley walks in behind him, hands in pockets, and gives the place a once-over. "Yeah, puh-retty shoddy upkeeping," he mutters, swiping up some shelf dust up with his fingers and sprinkling it onto the floor. Then, his eyes seem to land on something of interest to him. "O-oh, yes!"

He practically runs to the terrarium that's shoved in the corner of the room.

By this point, Mr. Fell has gathered several books up and his holding and muttering to them like they're babies. He walks over to Mr. Crowley and peers inside the vacant terrarium.

"Angel, look," Mr. Crowley implores. "It's got heated rocks. I _love_ a good heated rock."

"Ever the serpent," Mr. Fell sighs fondly. Rita is sure it's some kind of charming inside joke. It must be. . .

Mr. Crowley looks up at his husband and grins. "But don't you see, Aziraphale? It's perfect! We buy the house and the library. You can come here in the afternoons - repair the books, run the place, make it yours. And I can be here all the while keeping you company."

Now, Mr. Fell looks truly tempted, and Rita is impressed that Mr. Crowley can sell the place better than she can. But that is not the end. The end comes when Mr. Crowley grabs Mr. Fell's arm, leans in, and whispers, "You'd never have to sell another book again, Angel."

Mr. Fell's face brightens, almost like actual rays of light are beaming from him. He spins on his heel to face Rita. "We'll take them. Both of them."

Rita blinks once. Twice. Sputters. "W-wonderful! I'll send the papers your way, and they'll be yours."

Mr. Fell shakes Rita's hand, laying his left hand over where they join. Looking her very seriously in the eye, he says, "It was a pleasure meeting you, dear. I'm sure you needn't worry about your exams. Something tells me you'll pass them."

She hadn't told him about her exams. But she must've, of course, without realizing. Either way, she finds that she does believe him. And, despite how strange they are, when she sees Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell walk out of the library with their arms linked together, she can't help but think, _What a lovely couple._


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley and Aziraphale walk hand-in-hand over the threshold of their new home and almost immediately the hole in the ceiling widens by dropping a beam and several shingles to the ground.

"Lovely," Crowley mutters with no small amounts of sarcasm.

"Splendid!" Aziraphale says at the same time with no irony at all.

With a look that can be described as nothing else but disbelief steeped in adoration, Crowley turns to Aziraphale. "Splendid?" he questions, mimicking the angel's tone.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale answers. "I mean. . . We've repairs to do, certainly. But that only means it will be even more like ours. Almost as if we built it ourselves, don't you think?"

Crowley doesn't answer immediately. Instead he steps under the skylight the fallen beam had provided. (Secretly, Aziraphale thinks he glows under the almost-spotlight. Glows like a star.) He looks up at the sky and shrugs. "Won't be too difficult, I s'pose," he mutters. Then, he cracks his knuckles. "One demonic miracle, coming up."

Aziraphale stops him just in time by saying, "Oh, Crowley, let's not."

After a moment of confused sputtering, Crowley manages to reply, "Wha- Why not?"

With a shy little smile, Aziraphale joins the demon under the spotlight. "I was only thinking. . . What I'd like to do - what would really make me feel nice - is if we worked on this like any human would."

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean hiring somebody to fix it up?"

"No," Aziraphale huffs. "I mean with a hammer and nails and things."

Biting back a feral screech, Crowley nods. "And, do you know how to make all the needed repairs, angel?"

Aziraphale blinks like he hadn't considered that bit (he hadn't). "Please, Crowley," he says, trying to sound sure of himself. "I've been on earth for six-thousand years. I believe it's safe to assume that I know, _something_ about architecture."

"I think you know it exists and that's about it," Crowley replies.

Aziraphale's lower lip protrudes slightly in a subtle, yet obvious, pout. "That isn't fair, Crowley," he says. "After all, I took care of the bookshop for nearly two-hundred years, and it was already an old building when I got it."

Ah, the bookshop. A wonderful thing to bring up just after leaving it behind. Crowley wonders for a moment if Aziraphale is playing an angle. . . Nah. He wouldn't. "Well, it's your home now, angel," Crowley sighs. "If you want to actually build it. . ." He suppressed a cringe. "That's what we'll do."

And so they do. Aziraphale actually buys proper supplies, sets aside a proper workspace. Learns how to use a saw properly for Heaven's sake. He works day and night on the repairs with his overcoat off and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. (Seeing him like this, Crowley has to admit, is the one good thing about doing manual repairs.) And the work is finished quickly, nicely, and without any accidents. Whether or not this can be attributed to Crowley miracle-ing a little progress every time Aziraphale turns his back and making very miraculously sure that the angel doesn't get his thumb caught between a hammer and a hard place, he will never admit.

It still takes a little longer for Aziraphale to be completely satisfied. He spends an extra week or so laboring over the finer details. (He's developing a keen interest in architecture. He's quite a lot better at it than he expected. No smashed thumbs or anything.) But even with nitpicking, the work has to be finished eventually.

Crowley is in the sitting room when Aziraphale comes in with his sleeves rolled up (thank you, Lord) and a grin on his face. "There. All done, except the painting."

"And I'm gonna guess you'll want to get a bucket of paint and a roller? Just like a human?" Crowley teases. He knows full well that both things are already paid for and waiting. Aziraphale shoots him a look, but he ignores it to say, "But even when the painting's done, the place won't be finished."

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Crowley begins. "We've got to shop for furniture, haven't we?"

"Oh, I suppose we have got to. . ."

"Or have we?"

"You just said we did."

Crowley huffs. "That's not the point! The point is- oh well, you might as well just see for yourself." Without another word, he miracles in two plush chairs, one tall and burgundy and the other stout and off-white.

Aziraphale gasps. "Why, Crowley! They're lovely."

"I bought them from Amazon," Crowley adds, just to assure the angel that the gesture wasn't entirely philanthropic and had its demonic side.

Aziraphale gives him a brief, chastising look, but gets right back to fawning over the chairs. "Just think: our first real pieces of furniture in our new home." He settles into the white chair, hands resting primly on the arms of the seat. "I love it, Crowley. Really, I do."

Crowley takes his place in the burgundy chair. He doesn't settle in so much as sit on the edge of the seat, hunkered over with his forearms on his knees and his hands clasped. "And soon, we'll put a fire in that fireplace, and the mantle will be covered in books and baubles and things."

"We'll put some proper curtains on the windows," Aziraphale mused.

"Hang some pictures on the walls."

"Put some of your lovely plants in the sunlight."

Crowley sat up a little straighter. "Don't you dare pamper them, angel," he warned.

Aziraphale ignored him. "Do you know...? It's our first home together. The very first that's been both yours and mine. And I'm so glad we're here, Crowley."

With a smile, Crowley reached across the gap between their chairs and took Aziraphale's hand and said, "Me too."


End file.
